


Game of Phones

by galaxyknights



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-29 18:53:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8501368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxyknights/pseuds/galaxyknights
Summary: Yuuri's dog just died, okay? And he just lost basically the most important competition of his life? So maybe he doesn't feel like adding all these names into his phone right now. And maybe the next morning, he just adds the first text he gets as Phichit, because honestly, who else would text him?It's a mistake anyone could make. Cut the poor guy some slack!





	1. Part I: Yuuri

The point of figure skating is to tell a story with your movements--to transport the audience as they watch your turns and footwork into another plane where art is both a tangible and a visceral experience.

The story Yuuri tells in the Grand Prix Final is that he is a complete disgrace to the sport. Also that his dog died, and he overate the night before, and that he is at his worst both emotionally and physically.

 _And with my whole family watching? A_ _public viewing?_ Yuuri wipes his tears away with his sleeve, snot smearing on the fabric.

Thank god he's not alone at the after party. It's a media thing, mostly, and all Yuuri wants to do after Yuri Plisetsky threatens him with acute bodily trauma in an isolated bathroom after his terrible performance is go back to his hotel room and take a long, hot bath and cry more into the steam, but somehow Celestino convinces him to go.

But Phichit is there, so it’s bearable. 

It's a small affair, the party. There were only six competitors in the Grand Prix, after all, so just them and their few guests, some of the regular press faces idling about, coaches making nice despite their decades of rivalry, and a handful of other skaters who attended the event as spectators.

"It's going to be okay," Phichit says as soon as he can corner Yuuri. He puts his hands on Yuuri's shoulders and smiles at him. It makes a bit of the tight, painful feeling in his chest melt away,

While he lived in Detroit, Phichit attended the University of Michigan with him, and over time they grew close despite Yuuri's usual inability to make friends. It was likely a proximity thing more than anything, given that they'd had years worth of practices and competitions and daily commutes to Ann Arbor for classes bonding them in a way that only unrelenting physical contact can.

So he's used to Yuuri's moody spells, and doesn't seem too concerned. He just leads Yuuri around and makes polite chatter with the people at the party on his behalf.

At some point a woman walks in holding a little brown poodle puppy and Yuuri nearly breaks down into gross, loud weeping again.

 _I'm sorry Vicchan_ , Yuuri thinks to himself, staring at the puppy's sweet brown eyes.

Phichit has led him into a group with Viktor and, unfortunately, the Russian Yuri, who is still glaring at him with the snarling face of a baby tiger ready to prove it can take down a weak deer just like the older tigers. He doesn't catch all of the conversation.

"Commemorative photo?" Viktor asks. He speaks in English, since it's the most common language between the four of them. 

"I'll add it on my Instagram!" Phichit agrees with a wide grin. 

Yuri huffs and shuffles into a spot next to Viktor as Phichit hands his phone to someone and a few other skaters hop into the photo. Yuuri ends up between Phichit and Jean Jacques Leroy, and he manages to at least keep the frown off his face when the person taking the photo says "Cheese!" in a thick European accent.

"Can I have it?" a guy Yuuri doesn't recognize asks, and a few others chime in.

Phichit gives his usual amiable smile, "Of course! I'll text it to everyone. Yuuri will get everyone's numbers."

He gives his phone to Yuuri, who dutifully starts typing in whatever numbers people say to him. He doesn't bother with names, just adds them all next to **To:** and hands it back to Phichit.

Phichit says, "Oh I just got a new phone," he says, and pulls out another device from his back pocket. "Now I'm like a fancy businessman with one for business and another for pleasure," Phichit laughs, and Yuuri offers a quirk of his lips. He's looking for the puppy in the crowd again as a way to further deepen his pain. "Yuuri I'm gonna add my new number to this chat, too, so if you want to text me, text the new number, okay?"

Yuuri nods.

"Are you listening?" Phichit asks again, putting his face directly in Yuuri's line of sight. 

Yuuri nods again, this time turning up both corners of his mouth. He spends another ten minutes or so trying to be a person, but soon excuses himself back to his hotel room. 

He looks at his phone when he lays down, surprised to see a text, but it's just the photo from Phichit, his name alongside all the unknown numbers he typed in earlier. He hadn't paid attention to whose was whose, but he could probably figure it out if he tried. And his dog just died, okay? And he lost basically the most important competition of his life? So maybe Yuuri doesn't feel like putting the names into his phone right now, so he just leaves the screen on, staring at the picture of him and Viktor—and sure, everyone else. But. Still. It's their first photo together.

 

* * *

 

 Yuuri wakes up to a text, sent around 11:30 the night before. He must have fallen asleep early. It's from an unknown number, one of the ones from the photo message.

**\- Are you okay?**

That's all. He saves the number as Phichit, and brushes his teeth before he responds.

\-- Yeah, I'm alright. Thank you for worrying about me. I just need some time.

He hits send, and there's a response by the time he sets the phone down.

**\- There's still Nationals! Just work on your confidence. You have good footwork, but your jumps seem to suffer when you feel distracted.**

_Oh yeah, Phichit doesn’t know._

\-- My dog died yesterday. My mom called me the morning before the match to tell me.

**\- That’s awful! I’m so sorry. ༼ つ ಥ_ಥ ༽つ**

Yuuri doesn’t respond. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s never been much a texter. Despite Phichit’s constant attempts to lure him into social media, he’s never shown any prowess at phone interaction. Like his face to face interactions, he’s always helplessly awkward.

He sets his phone back down and starts to pack up, but before he gets far his phone lights up again.

**\- Are you going home today?**

He doesn’t unlock his phone, just stares at the lockscreen photo of Vicchan for a moment before picking it up and swiping a few times until the photo is changed to one of Viktor. It’s one of his favorites, from right before he chopped all his hair off a few years ago. He’s wearing a long silver tunic and white tights, and he looks like a shard of starlight.

Eventually, Yuuri opens the text.

\-- Yeah, back to Detroit for a while. I have classes tomorrow.

**\- GROSS. (ʘᗩʘ')**

Yuuri smiles and sits down, leaving his clothes half folded on the bed while he settles down to text his friend for a bit.

 

* * *

 

Four months later, Yuuri has spent almost all of his time skating and eating alone in corner booths of cheap restaurants in an attempt to ignore any emotions that might leak in from the well in his chest that he's tried (very hard) to board up. After his loss at Nationals, he became fixated on Viktor's free program. Every day he would wake up, get an order of fried eggs and bacon from the diner on the way to the rink, and then put in headphones and skate for hours.

Honestly, his Nationals program was pretty great. He could’ve done well, but…he was still too psyched out after the last failure, and all he could think were these terrible, self-loathing little thoughts that leaked into his routine like ink in spilling into water until, by the end, he was so far under the points cut off for the next round that he didn’t even bother staying to watch the results.

Celestino called after him as he stormed out of the building, but Yuuri pretended he couldn’t hear. Later, he texted his coach that he needed to go back to Japan to figure some things out. He was done with school, finally graduated, it made sense.

Maybe he would quit skating.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

I made sense to…go home and think about it, at least.

 

* * *

 

  **\- Did you see the final?**

\-- No, a customer wanted to watch basketball, so I went to the rink to practice.

**\- You missed a great performance!**

\-- Yeah, I heard Viktor won! I hope to skate on the same rink as him again one day.

**\- You definitely will (ᵔᴥᵔ)**

 

* * *

 

 “I’m sorry Yuuri. My kids uploaded the video, and it went viral.”

Takeshi’s voice fades as sounds of shouting from the girls and Yuuko take over, and Yuuri drops his phone with a choked sigh.

He can’t handle this. His phone buzzes several times with texts from Phichit, but he ignores them and just turns off his phone and goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 The next morning, Yuuri wakes to the sounds of his mother’s yells and the sight of all his Viktor Nikiforov posters and he feel like a middle schooler again. Still, the posters bring him peace, in the same way that performing Viktor’s programs does—it makes him feel closer to his idol.

When he steps out into the genkan to open the door, it bursts open as a large poodle jumps onto his chest and knocks him backwards onto the stair. A sharp pain rockets down his spine, but he barely notices when the dog starts to lick at his face.

“Vicchan? No, he’s much bigger than Vicchan,” despite that, the dog looks very familiar. A thought crosses his mind, “No…it couldn’t be.”

His dad comes up behind him. “Yuuri, isn’t he just like Vicchan? He came with a really good-looking foreign guest! He’s in the hot spring now.”

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be it just couldn’—

But it is. Because Yuuri rounds the corner to the outdoor baths and there is Viktor—and he’s perfect, of course. Better in real life than in all the posters hanging on Yuuri’s bedroom walls. His fair skin and hair match the newly fallen snow and scattering of pink cherry blossoms like they’re made from the same magic.

And then he stands up and--

Shit.

“Yuuri, starting today, I’m your coach,” Viktor reaches out his hand, cheeks and nose flushed from the cold, miles of bare skin steaming from the onsen, “I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final.”

And then he fucking winks.

And Yuuri can’t contain his scream of disbelief as one of his (many) fantasies seems to come true.


	2. Part II: Viktor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i considered waiting until after ep. 7 came out to post this, since i have a feeling we're going to get a lot more insight into viktor's motivations for coaching yuuri, but OH WELL. when you make an arbitrary posting schedule for yourself you gotta stick to it, right? (: 
> 
> this chapter is primarily just a replay of episodes 2 and 3, but with a lot more introspection on viktor's part. i wasnt interested in stretching canon much--ill save that for my fantasy au..,,,;;;;;;; the next part is where we get see yuuri's BURNING PASSION BEGIN TO ERUPT SO STAY TUNED.
> 
> yell about yoi w me on twitter y'all [@ddolica](https://twitter.com/ddolica)

Viktor isn’t a foolish man. He realized pretty early on that Yuuri clearly didn’t know who he was.

Only a few days after he’d first texted Viktor, Yuuri referenced something about their time together at the Detroit Skating Club. He hesitated, but it didn’t take more than a quick internet search to see that Phichit and Yuuri had both been in the club together, and that made sense, since it was Phichit who had been guiding Yuuri around that night at the party like a good friend might.

But he also realized that he didn’t necessarily want Yuuri to know it wasn’t his friend Phichit messaging with him. It made sense that Yuuri wouldn’t be so willing to talk to him if he didn’t already believe they had a relationship of some kind. In all their few interactions, Yuuri had come off as a closed person, and he’d even blatantly ignored Viktor at the party. Viktor can recall all the times he’d been ignored in his entire life. He can count it on one hand.

So…he decided to keep it going. The younger man interested him, somehow, and his moral compass might have been at least a little bit faulty to use that as an excuse to basically catfish Yuuri, but Viktor had very few hobbies outside of skating. He hated being bored, and he was never bored when texting with Yuuri Katsuki.

But how long until Yuuri realized the mistake himself? Viktor’s phone number had a Russian country code, for god sakes.

After a few months passed of them exchanging a handful of messages every day, Viktor started to understand that Yuuri wasn’t okay. He didn’t know the younger man that well, and it was difficult to get to know someone when that person was under the assumption that you were already their dear old friend. But Yuuri seemed…deeply unhappy. Viktor wondered if this was why he hadn’t noticed yet. Viktor pictured him walking down the street and not even noticing the flowers.

He asked often, **Are you okay?**

But he never pressed. Didn’t want to risk it.

And sometimes he felt very guilty about that.

 

* * *

 

_\--- Have you seen this kid? He’s really not half bad._

Viktor opens the link, and shock clutches at heart. It’s Yuuri. Their texting has grown more infrequent since Viktor started preparing for the finals, but that’s undeniably him. The younger man poses in simple sweats at a small, neighborhood rink, but he looks…vulnerable.

The music starts. Its bad quality, coming from a speaker somewhere in the room, but Viktor recognizes it within the first note—it’s his own music. His eyes widen as Yuuri starts performing _Stay with Me_ with the skill of someone who’s been practicing it for nearly as long as Viktor himself. His eyes glue to the screen. Makkachin whines for attention, but Viktor can’t do more than bury his fingers in his dog’s soft fur as Yuuri opens his heart to the performance.

_He’s not polished, he keeps faltering on his stance, but—_

As the video progresses, inspiration strikes. It’s the opposite of what anyone would expect. And by the time Yuuri strikes his final pose, Viktor has booked a flight to Hasetsu for the very next day.

 

* * *

 

Viktor hadn’t thought it would get this complicated. Stupidly, of course. There was no scenario in which he came out of this mess unscathed by his own hubris.

\-- Viktor is here, I can’t believe it!

\-- Do you think he’ll be able to tell how I feel about him?

Viktor can’t ask. Phichit would already know how Yuuri felt. Viktor’s phone starts to buzz in his hand, Yuuri’s number flashing on the bright screen. He watches as the call dies, a spurt of adrenaline thrumming through his veins as he quickly texts back.

**\- Sorry, busy right now! (T OT) That’s incredible!!**

\- **Do you still feel the same?**

Yuuri takes a few minutes to respond, so in the meantime Viktor begins unpacking his bags and arranging things in his new room. He trails his fingers over the tatami mats, noting the strange texture of the woven straw against his skin.

The traditional bed, too, will take some getting used to.

\-- I do. I’M SO DUMB. T ^T

\-- I’m still in denial this is actually happening….;;;;;

\-- I never dreamed he’d be interested in me!

Viktor doesn’t know how to respond, so instead he just grabs his pillow and pads down the hall to Yuuri’s room, Makkachin trailing behind him. “Yuuri!” he calls through the door, a grin settling onto his face and refusing to leave. “Let’s sleep together! As your coach, there’s so much I need to learn about you!”

The sound of Yuuri panicking on the other side of the door makes his chest warm and light and so happy it hurts.

 

* * *

 

Ten days later, Yuri Plisetsky arrives like a blonde typhoon, and a small part of Viktor is disappointed at the disturbance in their little routine. The other ninety-nine parts are excited by the surprise.

“Judging by that look on your face,” Viktor remarks, “I’m guessing I forgot some promise I made!”

Viktor doesn’t remember telling young Yuri that he would choreograph a program for him, but it sounds a lot like something he would say, so he doesn’t question it.

 _This could be very fun._ He closes his eyes, fingers pressed against his chin as he brainstorms quickly.

“Okay!” he says with a start as soon as he finds eureka. “I’ve decided! Tomorrow, I’ll choreograph a program for both of you to the same music I’m using in my short program.”

Yuri Plisetsky cries out, “Viktor will do whatever the winner says!” Yuuri hollers a series of protests.

Viktor just smiles a wide grin, “I love this kind of thing!”

 

* * *

 

Viktor spends the next week on the ice constantly. Makkachin, feeling abandoned, starts to trails after Yuuri’s every step instead, but Viktor doesn’t have time to feel heartbroken over the betrayal. His focus is on the two routines. They need to be inspired, they need to be perfect. They need to reflect what he knows the two skaters are capable of.

Most of all, they need to surprise the audience.

They need to be the opposite of what anyone would expect.

When Viktor finally reveals the themes to Yuuri and Yurio, he does it with glee. Yurio’s passion when he says he’ll skate to Agape, and the innocence to which Yuuri accepts Eros—Viktor knows that no matter what happens, he’ll end up having fun.

 

* * *

 

\-- He’s so hot! It’s enough to make even me, a man, pregnant! ლ(ಠ益ಠლ)

Viktor can’t keep the smug grin off his face. He has a feeling he’s only going to get worse.

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri, try to imagine the entangling more of the egg!” Viktor shouts across the rink.

“Yeah, because everyone wants to be seduced by an undercooked egg,” Yuri Plisetsky shouts as well, along with some other random vitriol, from his own corner of the rink where he’s been trying and failing to imbue his footwork with a sense of unconditional love.

Viktor gets a text when Yuuri takes a short break from the rink to stretch out.

\-- THIS KID IS SO FRUSTRATING.

 **\- I’m sure you’ll be okay. It’s good motivation!** **ᕦ** **(ò_óˇ)** **ᕤ**

 

* * *

 

When Minako says that ‘Yuuri is no genius’, Viktor refuses to accept it.

“I’m going to become a super tasty pork cutlet bowl,” Yuuri says, face blushing red and brown eyes wide with determination. “So please watch me.”

Then, as he pulls Viktor into a hug, Viktor feels something inside his chest shift. “Promise!” Yuuri begs into his ear as his face presses, warm, into Viktor’s knit scarf.

“Of course,” he replies, and his tone comes out somber enough to surprise him. “I love pork cutlet bowls.”

He came to Japan to have fun. To switch things up, but—

Yuuri lands his first triple axel flawlessly.

He was originally inspired by Yuuri’s raw talent, could see what a bit of focus could do to make him shine—the younger skater intrigued him, sometimes fascinated him, but—

Yuuri moves with a lithe, territorial grace.

He’d been playing with him a little, trying to tease out that bud of passion he knew lingered somewhere underneath his innocent exterior, but—

This was unexpected. This was Yuuri Katsuki coming to life.

 

* * *

 

Viktor stops texting as Phichit. His phone buzzes with a message from Yuuri the night after Onsen on Ice, and Viktor doesn’t open it. He just watches the little green light blink steadily like a firefly signaling in the dark.


	3. Part III: Yuuri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPISODE 4 CANON DIVERGENCE
> 
> ...because i had five papers due this week so i kind of just went with the flow instead of making sure every detail fit the timeline of the show correctly (my apologies).
> 
> P.S. sorry for the angst?? i promise the next chapter will be less angsty....at least by the resolution lol.
> 
> as always come yell w me on on twitter yyeeeeeeee [@ddolica](https://twitter.com/ddolica)

 

Yuuri tries to remember the moment everything changed.

For years, he would lull himself to sleep thinking about Viktor, looking up at the pictures of him up on his wall, letting them inspire his dreams. Viktor with long hair from his performance of _La Vie en Rose_. Viktor in a slick black button up posing for a sports magazine. Viktor staring into the camera, neptune eyes fixated on Yuuri’s. Viktor’s hand trailing up Yuuri’s waist…

There was always a moment when his innocent adoration of his idol grew more…wanton.

He lets his hands wander while his mind trails off.

 _Don’t ever take your eyes off me_.

Viktor’s expression was so perfect when he’d said that. So surprised, and then, his lips parted just slightly, so pleased.

 _Only I can satisfy Viktor,_ he thinks now. _He came here for me, because of me, he wants me, he—_

Yuuri gasps as he reached the edge and a dirty smile curls around the edges of his mouth as he pulls his fingers up to trace along his stomach.

Maybe there was no precise moment. Just a steady slope downwards into an abyss of his own making, only darkness and Viktor waiting for him at the bottom.

Maybe not darkness, nothing that dramatic, surely. But something unfamiliar, at least. He doesn’t know what this feeling is.

The feeling he gets when Viktor puts his hands on Yuuri’s back after practice and criticizes and compliments him, warmth in his voice like he legitimately wants Yuuri to grow. The feeling he gets when Viktor smiles at him—because _fuck_ he’s always smiling and it kills Yuuri how it makes him incandescent.

His heart feels swollen, tender, too big for his chest.

This isn’t the same as when he was a kid, getting off to a fantasy.

This is something abstract, something different. This is real.

 

* * *

 

There’s no good way for Yuuri to find out, but it’s probably for the best that it’s in the most obvious way possible.

He gets a video call from a number he doesn’t have saved.

Phichit’s smiling face appears. “Yuuri! How are you?”

“Oh hey Phichit,” Yuuri screws his face up funny, but before he can say anything else Phichit continues.

“Did you see our assignments? I can’t wait to see you in China!” Phichit offers a wide grin.

“Hey, did you get another new phone?”

“Hmm?” Phichit blinks, “Three would be way too many! Unless…,” he pauses to think, “No, no, three is definitely too many. You’re competing in Nationals, right? When are those?”

“Not until September,” Yuuri replies.

They speak amiably for another twenty minutes before Yuuri says goodbye.

When the call is over, Yuuri looks at the number. He definitely doesn’t have it saved. But then, why did he have the other number for Phichit already?  Yuuri googles the country code.

Who would be texting him from a Russian phone number? He knows a very select number of Russians.

 

* * *

 

That night Yuuri takes Viktor out to a sake bar down the street, one that stays open late. Viktor always drinks too much too quickly, without any regard for the pacing of his companions, so it’s not long before the Russian is red-faced and slurring, complaining about being hot and needing to take off his jacket. Yuuri is one drink in, just enough for bravery.

“Viktor,” he says, and his coach gives him a warm, trusting look. His pupils are dilated, thinning out the blue-green strip of his iris into the bright spiral of a corona. Could someone who looked at him like that think about manipulating him? He doesn’t know. He says, “Selfie?”

Viktor’s apple cheeks dimple, “Selfie!” he calls, pulling out his phone and taking a few tries before successfully unlocking it.

Yuuri takes the phone, saying, “This is your good side.” Viktor doesn’t question it, and Yuuri holds up the phone at an upwards angle, taking a quick snapshot of them and their drinks on the counter. “What’s a good caption?” He asks.

While Viktor thinks, long finger tapping almost comically on his chin, Yuuri exits out the app and opens the call feature. He quickly types in his own number and lets it ring. When he feels his phone begin to vibrate in his pocket, he presses the red end call button. His thumb is steady but he feels like the rest of his fingers are shaking.

A sick feeling blossoms in Yuuri’s stomach. He lays some bills on the counter and stands up, leaving his stool behind.

Outside the air is warm and sticky, summer officially setting in. Nature, apparently, has decided to skip right over spring. The hot air has brought out the cicadas early, and they ring and buzz from every bush and tree. It normally brings him peace, but now the sound is grating on his ears, the harsh high-pitched shrill sending shivers up his spine.

With a deep, shaky breath Yuuri pulls out his phone.

**Missed Call: Phichit**

Viktor comes up behind him and places his hands on Yuuri’s waist. Yuuri heart leaps, quickly, in panic and he quickly slides his phone back into his pants. 

“Yuuri,” Viktor says in his slow, sultry voice that Yuuri knows he uses just to tease him, “Going so soon? I thought we were going to have fun.” He’s so close, Yuuri can feel Viktor’s breath skating across his collar, dipping under the cotton of his shirt and introducing itself to his skin.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says again with that slow whine, and despite the sick feeling in his chest, Yuuri can feel a blush rising to his cheeks.

Viktor turns him around, so they’re facing each other. His gaze falls to Yuuri’s mouth, “Oh,” he says with a soft smile, “Your lips are chapped again.”

He reaches down to his pocket to pull out some moisturizer, and Yuuri can’t help himself. He lets it happen. He doesn’t know what to do. Viktor’s soft fingertips press against his bottom lip with reverent care.

“I feel sick,” Yuuri says, and it’s the truth. Viktor releases him in surprise—Yuuri uses that moment to break away.

Viktor calls after him as he runs up the street, but the older man is too drunk to run very successfully and Yuuri ends up making it home with enough of a head start to lock himself in his room to cry.

 

* * *

 

In practice the next day, Yuuri can’t keep his mind clear, no matter how hard he tries. He pushes himself extra during his morning workout, trying to sweat out the bad feelings, but nothing helps. He leaves the gym just as confused and angry and sad as the night before.

Viktor is hungover, but eventually even he notices. “Are you okay?” Concern knots his brows.

Yuuri takes a quiet moment to tie his skates tightly, head down so he can blink away a few sudden tears. “I just want to skate.” Maybe it’ll keep his mind off the phone thing until he has time to decide what to do about it.

Viktor doesn’t look sure, but puts a warm hand on Yuuri’s back and helps him, unnecessarily, into the rink. “You’re going to run through your freestyle program today, right?”

Yuuri nods.

“Don’t do any jumps. You always miss when you’re distracted.” Yuuri doesn’t reply. The music starts as soon as he hits the center of the rink.

The program is his life story; he can’t help but think about it.

Can’t help but think about how Viktor played with him for all these months.

“Yuuri?”

Viktor lied to his face, betrayed his trust. Who would do that? What kind of person would do that to someone they claimed to care about?

Yuuri skates in a wide arc, the music in his head stuttering.

He starts turning, gaining momentum for the first jump. It doesn’t matter that Viktor told him not to. He doesn’t care what Viktor thinks. He bends his knees. He doesn’t care about Viktor, he doesn’t care—

Yuuri feels the sprain before it happens. He can tell it’s going to hurt—he shouldn’t have forced a quad, can feel a sharp tingle in his knees, and then the buckle of foot as the blade of his skate pulls him down and gravity kicks in. He doesn’t even have time to wince when something in his ankle tears and gives way, his leg collapsing underneath him.

Honestly, the cold ice is a relief.


	4. Part IV: Viktor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a really difficult chapter for me to write--i panicked a bit after ep. 10 when we found out the Truth about the grand prix banquet. i really hope what i was able to come up with is satisfactory based on the previous chapters, although its pretty far from canon now. but this is how i always meant it to end--hopeful.
> 
> come die w me on twitter ([@ddolica](https://twitter.com/ddolica)) as we wait for ep. 12

Viktor’s stomach drops out when Yuuri falls. He doesn’t wait for the on-call first aid employee, forsakes protocol and stumbles onto the ice, skating across in his loafers. He slips in his rush, years of never leaving the rink worthless as panic rattles through his bones. He crawls the last few feet, bending over Yuuri, hands seeking out his face, seeking out anywhere he can touch.

“Yuuri? Are you okay? Yuuri?” Viktor’s breath comes out hard, burns his throat.

Yuuri’s eyes flicker open, and the pain in them overwhelms Viktor’s heart. He feels a sting in the corners of his eyes.

“Yuuri?” Viktor says again, the word a plea.

Yuuri doesn’t meet his gaze. His lips part, and the sound that comes out breaks something vital in Viktor’s chest. This isn’t the Yuuri he knows: moody, but determined. This is a creature in pain. This is his friend, his—his…Yuuri. Suffering more than he would’ve thought possible from a slipped jump. “It hurts so much,” Yuuri says.

But he starts to get up anyways. Viktor’s hands immediately go to his back and arm to assist. “Are you sure you can stand? It’s your ankle, right?” Suddenly he worries that Yuuri might be hurt elsewhere, that his touch might be causing him more pain accidently.

But Yuuri nods his head. He leans his weight against Viktor and allows himself to be pulled along on one skate as Viktor slowly, carefully leads him to the closest gate.

Viktor takes Yuuri’s skate off as gently as he can. He holds Yuuri’s hand, unable to lose that physical contact. Unable to let go.

 

* * *

 

Later, the doctor tells them it’s a grade 2 sprain. The ligament has been torn partially, and Yuuri must cease practicing until the swelling improves considerably.

“It’s fine,” Viktor says, hand stroking the nape of Yuuri’s neck. “We’ll start physical therapy this afternoon.”

“You’ll want to keep off it for a few days, at least, before trying to start PT,” the doctor warns. “But a sprain like this won’t keep you off the ice for more than a couple of weeks. Try to use this time to relax.”

A few days pass. Yuuri is sullen, silently limping from his bedroom to the kitchen and back. Viktor pads up behind him, “Yuuri are you relaxing? Do you feel rejuvenated with your time off?” He offers his widest, most sparkling smile, but Yuuri never responds more than the most polite minimum.

Viktor doesn’t know what to do. He’s not good at dealing with other people’s emotions. _Should I just kiss him?_ He thinks. But no, there’s no chance. Yuuri’s door is locked.

Viktor looks around his room, filled with half-unpacked boxes and Makkachin’s bed lying empty in the corner; Yuuri called the poodle into his room earlier. His phone is sitting on the desk, screen dark like a black hole, drawing him in.

**\- Hey! How are you?**

The reply takes over an hour to come, but Viktor spends every minute staring into the gaping black of the screen, waiting for it to light up and show the picture of Yuuri and Makkachin that he’s had as his background photo for the past month.

\-- I feel terrible

\-- I don’t know what my life is supposed to be if I can’t skate

\-- I don’t know why Viktor is here

\-- I can’t stop thinking about it

\-- I don’t know why he’s here, so how can I know if he’ll stay?

Yuuri’s never been this honest with him before. Viktor presses the phone against his forehead. The collar at his neck is choking him, even though its already loose.

Viktor poises his fingertips above the digital keyboard, trying to think of something, anything to say in response. No words seem like enough. He wants to tell Yuuri his own truth, but he only knows how to be honest when he’s on the ice.

Viktor stands up quickly, launches himself into the hall and down to Yuuri’s bedroom. Surely if he just sees Yuuri’s face, touches him, hears his perfect voice, the words will come. The ones that have been poised on the edge of his tongue, that have pressed that guilty weight against his heart for the past three months.

Amazingly, the door to Yuuri’s room is unlocked. Makkachin is inside, sleeping with his head between his paws. Yuuri’s bed is rumpled, and his walls are strangely bare.

Where would Yuuri go? To the ballet studio?

He couldn’t practice, not with his ankle as swollen as it still was.

He couldn’t have gotten far really at all. Where would Yuuri go when his heart was broken?

 

* * *

 

Viktor comes to a stop suddenly, skidding on the cobbled bridge a few feet away from Yuuri.

Yuuri doesn’t turn to him, doesn’t remove his gaze from the fast-moving water below.

Viktor places his hands on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“I came because—,” he starts, but the look in Yuuri’s eyes silences him.

“I know,” Yuuri says. He gazes up at Viktor, his warm brown eyes filled with wide, soft tears. “I’ve known for a while.”

Viktor blinks. His heartbeat stutters. “I—I’m so sorry, Yuuri.”

Yuuri just shrugs. His hands raise almost involuntarily to Viktor’s chest.

“What can I do?” Viktor begs. “How can I make this better?”

“I don’t know!” Yuuri cries, emotion suddenly bursting forth, fists pounding softly on Viktor’s chest. “I--,” his voice cracks. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking…would you even have come here, would you have ever even thought about me, if not for this ridiculous game you started?” Tears stream down his face, and his fingers uncurl and dig into the soft fabric of Viktor’s shirt.

Bile rises in Viktor’s throat. He clutches at Yuuri’s back, holding him as tight as can dare. He doesn’t want to let go. Even with Yuuri’s tears wetting his shirt, it still feels so right to keep him as close as physically possible at all times. He doesn’t want to ever let go.

But he does, of course. He must.

“Yuuri…,” His grip loosens, and Yuuri just burrows his face further into Viktor’s chest. 

Viktor steps back, removes himself from Yuuri’s gravitational field. His throat is dry, but he forces the words out, “Yuuri I fucked up.”

Yuuri’s eyes angle up, a flash of anger in them now, “Yeah, you did.”

“I’m so sorry,” he continues, “You shouldn’t feel like...like this is was anything more than my fault. I was so stupid, I never should have lied to you. I won’t try to make any excuses. None of them matter.”

Yuuri peers up from under thick black lashes, eyes still glistening and cheeks and nose flushed red against the night. His voice comes out determined. “Are you in love with me?”

Viktor doesn’t hesitate. The words come pouring out of him, as if they’ve been poised behind his teeth for months, since before he’d even come to Japan. The levee breaks. “Yes.”

Viktor’s breath catches as Yuuri lunges against his mouth, and he accepts it as the gift it is. Yuuri’s lips are smooth and the kiss is wet and salty with tears. He wants more—wants to press himself against the soft line of Yuuri’s body and dissolve their boundaries. He wants to savor it—wants to kiss Yuuri the same way snowflakes fall during a blizzard: soft and gentle, but endless.

Yuuri wants to let him, despite the anger still buffering in his chest.

Because that is Yuuri’s hamartia. His love for Viktor. His willingness to forgive anything. And it will be, for many many years.

But that’s Viktor’s hamartia, too. He loves Yuuri too much to let him feel like he deserves this. So for many years he’ll keep reminding Yuuri: you are everything, you deserve everything.

Viktor breaks the kiss, even though Yuuri tries to pull him back into it, tries to tangle his fingers into Viktor’s hair and tug his face back where it belongs. But Viktor resists. He says, “I want to tell you everything. And then you can decide if you still want me to be your coach.” Yuuri loosens the pressure on his head.

Yuuri’s face does something remarkable, then. His eyes crinkle up at the edges, lips quirk into a small, teasing smile. He glistens in the lamplight, face still damp with tears. “Only if you can tell me over katsudon. I really deserve it after putting up with this.”

That’s when Viktor starts crying. The relief floods out of his body in hot, quiet tears as he nods furiously. Yuuri doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arm around Viktor’s shoulder and starts limping them back towards the inn.

As soon as the tears are under control, Viktor starts. “I’ve spent the last 20 years neglecting two things…”


End file.
